Taj Mahal Quotes

Rubbish. The Taj Mahal is only a hundred eighty-six square feet. This house has twenty-five thousand." I stared at him blankly. "I was kidding," he said. I stared at him blankly. "All right, I wasn't kidding. Let's go, shall we.?" "After you, my liege.

It can be exhausting eating a meal cooked by a man. With a woman, it's, Ho hum, pass the beans. A guy, you have to act like he just built the Taj Mahal.

She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight.

if I'd ever grown prosperous like ShahJahan was, I'd not have waited for my beloved's death before I erected a Taj Mahal.

Taj Mahal is not just a monument, but a symbol of love.

I found the Taj Mahal as the most appropriate example of artistically expressed love.

The Taj Mahal rises above the banks of the river like a solitary tear suspended on the cheek of time.

We took the elevator back down from the first observation level of the Eiffel Tower and started walking in he direction of the Taj Mahal

Marble, I perceive, covers a multitude of sins.

Shah Jahan who proved an emperor to be shorter than a lover, who turned a grave into a temple who gave his beloved a place of God and converted love into a prayer.

She is the glorious reincarnation of every woman ever loved. It was her face that launched the Trojan War, her untimely demise that inspired the building of India's Taj Mahal. She is every angel in Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel.

Rahul had wondered how someone could love their beloved so much that their dedication to them became one of the wonders of the world.

All right fine!” she snapped. “I’m in love with you. There. I said it. Now get over yourself.” “You know, I think those are the words written on the Taj Mahal: ‘I said it. Now get over yourself.’ Some of the greatest love stories have started with those words.

To say she was attractive would be an understatement. Calling her 'attractive' would be like calling the Taj Mahal a marble grave.

We return to you, O earth, the things which you have given us willingly and most graciously; with our hearts, hands and minds, in the best way we know how.

Taj Mahal was built as a team; without a team, it was a far dream.

The world believes it was built by love but reading Shah Jahan’s own words on the Taj, one could say it was grief that built the Taj Mahal and it was sorrow that saw it through sixteen years till completion.

But Mehrunnisa did not know then, would never know, by giving her blessings to this marriage she had set into progress a chain of events that would eventually erase her name from history's pages. Or that Arjumand would become the only Mughal woman posterity would easily recognize. Docile, seemingly tractable and troublesome Arjumand would eclipse even Mehrunnisa, cast her in a shadow...because of the monument Khurram would build in Arjumand's memory - the Taj Mahal.

Musuh membiak seperti tikus. Kau injak mereka, kau racun mereka, kau bakar mereka, akan lebih banyak lagi yang muncul! Tidak ada bedanya apakah kau hidup pada masa perang atau damai, makmur atau kelaparan! Musuh selalu menyusun rencana di belakangmu. (Shah Jahan dalam Taj Mahal, Kisah Cinta Abadi)

When you left you left behind a field of silent flowers under a sky full of unstirred clouds...you left a million butterflies mid-silky flutters You left like midnight rain against my dreaming ears Oh and how you left leaving my coffee scentless and my couch comfortless leaving upon my fingers the melting snow of you you left behind a calendar full of empty days and seasons full of aimless wanders leaving me alone with an armful of sunsets your reflection behind in every puddle your whispers upon every curtain your fragrance inside every petal you left your echoes in between the silence of my eyes Oh and how you left leaving my sands footless and my shores songless leaving me with windows full of moistened moonlight nights and nights of only a half-warmed soul and when you left... you left behind a lifetime of moments untouched the light of a million stars unshed and when you left you somehow left my poem...unfinished. (Published in Taj Mahal Review Vol.11 Number 1 June 2012)

No, no, don’t touch your mother just before the baby is born. Now it will be a girl child, because you are one. Run along now. Take your evil eye with you.” “Ghias, we must be careful not to teach the girls too much. How will they ever find husbands if they are too learned? The less they know, the less they will want of the outside world.

There is always the fear that a wonder of the world can’t live up to expectations. Not so. The Taj Mahal was breathtakingly beautiful – if anything, better even than I’d been told. Beauty like that is too dazzling to be imagined.

I've been around and seen the Taj Mahal and the Grand Canyon and Marilyn Monroe's footprints outside Grauman's Chinese, but I've never seen my mother wash her own hair.

Next morning get up early and go to the Taj Mahal. Perhaps you've heard of it, big white building named after that Indian restaurant on the Lothian Road.

Human beings, for some reason or another, like symmetry. You leave a bunch of them next to a jungle for a couple of days and you'll come back to find an ornamental garden. We take stones and turn them into the Taj Mahal or St. Paul's Cathedral.

This great Mughal Emperor [Akbar] was illiterate; he could neither read nor write. However, that had not stopped Akbar from cultivating the acquaintance of the most learned and cultured poets, authors, musicians, and architects of the time - relying solely on his remarkable memory during conversations with them.

He could describe walking towards the Taj Mahal – ho-hum, thinks the reader, immediately in the realm of the tacky postcard – and still give you a wholly fresh impression of the exact scale and actual presence of that white tomb; delicate but powerful, compact and yet boundlessly imposing. Epic grace. With those two words he encapsulated it, and you knew exactly what he meant.

If I had the true colours to describe what I feel for you, I wouldn't waste time stringing beads of words... Instead I would run to kiss you and leave monuments on you:- pyramids on your lips, the Taj Mahal on your skin, and the Eiffel tower in your heart. NOTESEUM | A storm I chased

The four borders of the Taj Mahal are designed to be identical, as if there were a mirror situated on one side, though one can never tell on which one. Stone reflected in the water. God reflected in human beings. Love reflected in heartbreak. Truth reflected in stories. We live, toil and die under the same invisible dome. Rich and poor, Mohammedan and baptized, free and slave, man and woman, Sultan and mahout, master and apprentice … I have come to believe that if there is one shape that reaches out to all of us, it is the dome. That is where all the distinctions disappear and every single sound, whether of joy or sorrow, merges into one huge silence of all-encompassing love. When I think of this world in such a way, I feel dazed and disoriented, and cannot tell any longer where the future begins and the past ends; where the West falls and the East rises.

It is good to recall that three centuries ago, around the year 1660, two of the greatest monuments of modern history were erected, one in the West and one in the East; St. Paul's Cathedral in London and the Taj Mahal in Agra. Between them, the two symbolize, perhaps better than words can describe, the comparative level of architectural technology, the comparative level of craftsmanship and the comparative level of affluence and sophistication the two cultures had attained at that epoch of history. But about the same time there was also created—and this time only in the West—a third monument, a monument still greater in its eventual import for humanity. This was Newton's Principia, published in 1687. Newton's work had no counterpart in the India of the Mughals.

With time and a kindly librarian, any unskilled person can learn how to build a replica of the Taj Mahal.

It looks like the house of Ali Baba! Or the Moulin Rouge! Or the Taj Mahal! If only she would decide on a country and have done with it. Is that what passes for modern décor?

Shah Jahan built Taj Mahal because he was a king, I wrote a beautiful book for my wife, though I was never an Author…

Oh God. Goddammit. I never got to see the pyramids. Or the Taj Mahal. I ...I never even got to leave the country." "Don't sweat it, brother. You got to live in NYC. You didn't miss shit.

She sighed and lifted her hand to run it along the edge of his lip. "You want to stay here, in the employees' quarters? Wouldn't you be a little out of place?" "If you're here,it will be the Taj Mahal.

We have scholars galore, and kings and emperors, and statesmen and military leaders, and artists in profusion, and inventors, discoverers, explorers - but where are the great lovers? After a moment's reflection one is back to Abelard and Heloise, or Anthony and Cleopatra, or the story of the Taj Mahal. So much of it is fictive, expanded and glorified by the poverty-stricken lovers whose prayers are answered only by myth and legend.

I apply the warrior energy to the blues by tapping into the ancient job of the griot class.That wasn’t a job you did because someone said you had to do it;you did it because that’s what you did. It was your right as a person.In terms of warriorship,you had to stand up and do what was right,what you were born to do…… In warriorship you have to be very present,very aware of where you are,where you’ve been and where you’re going. Part of what a warrior does,the compassion and generosity of warriorship,is to get the door open and hold it open for other people to come through.That means the warrior is often out there alone. Sometimes the door closes behind you and you don’t know it happened.Then you have to stop,put the guitar down,go back and get a wedge,and get the door open again,so..people can hear the music. You can’t be afraid,no matter what’s going on.” Taj Mahal Autobiography of A Bluesman

Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Give a WOMAN a fish and she'll feed the whole family for a week!

Why are we so easily swayed by facts forwarded by email? Why do so many Indians believe that the Taj Mahal was originally a temple called Tejo Mahalaya? Why do so many of us instantly believe and immediately proselytize that ‘India has never invaded any country in her last 1,000 years of history’ or that ‘The word “navigation” is derived from the Sanskrit navgath’ without even pausing to ask: ‘Is any of this actually true?

Once upon a teenage mistake, Ash thought he was in forever love, the kind of love that started wars and built the Taj Mahal. He knew at that moment how wrong he'd been. Without his even realizing it, Ash had fallen for Fee, harder and faster than he'd ever fallen for anyone. This was the love he'd thought he'd had before, but there was no real comparison between the two. It was like putting a matchstick beside a raging inferno—one of them would be completely consumed.

A blush tinged her bronzed skin as she wrapped her arms around herself. Corrado grasped her wrists, pulling her hands away when she tried to shield herself. He stared at her, stunned to see the uncertainty in her eyes. "You're not nervous this time, are you?" he asked, half-teasingly, half honestly wanting to know. She'd been so confident, unwavering before. "It's the way you're looking at me." "How am I looking at you?" "Like you look at the Taj Mahal. Or the Sistine Chapel. You're staring at me like you stare at the Mona Lisa." "I've never seen those things." "It's like you've never seen something so beautiful before." "I haven’t.

Give a man a teacher and he'll learn many a thing. Teach a man to learn and he'll learn from everything.

Give a man a proverb and he’ll muse for a moment. Teach a man to find the verb in every proverb and he’ll walk in wisdom for a lifetime.

Now remember, they say if two people go together to visit the Taj Mahal, that means they will always be together. Are you ready for that?" "Guess I'm stuck with you then.

Nothing matters very much, and few things matter at all. When the earth falls into the sun...when the Taj Mahal, Mozart and the Mona Lisa burn to a crisp...what difference will it make.

By such subtle signs, like an orchestra tuning up, the daily event that is central to life on the Coromandel Coast announces itself: the evening breeze. The Madras evening breeze has a body to it, its atomic constituents knitted together to create a thing of substance that strokes and cools the skin in the manner of a long, icy drink or a plunge into a mountain spring. It pushes through on a broad front, up and down the coast; unhurried, reliable, with no slack until after midnight, by which time it will have lulled them into beautiful sleep. It doesn’t know caste or privilege as it soothes the expatriates in their pocket mansions, the shirtless clerk sitting with his wife on the rooftop of his one-room house, and the pavement dwellers in their roadside squats. Digby has seen the cheery Muthu become distracted, his conversation clipped and morose, as he waits for the relief that comes from the direction of Sumatra and Malaya, gathering itself over the Bay of Bengal, carrying scents of orchids and salt, an airborne opiate that unclenches, unknots, and finally lets one forget the brutal heat of the day. “Yes, yes, you are having your Taj Mahal, your Golden Temple, your Eiffel Tower,” an educated Madrasi will say, “but can anything match our Madras evening breeze?

In 2021, we are five human lifetimes removed from the building of the Taj Mahal, and two lifetimes removed from the abolition of slavery in the United States. History, like human life, is at once incredibly fast and agonizingly slow.

You’re still in love with her. She makes you want to live life. Personally, and this is just me, man, if I ever met a woman who saved me that way, I’d devote some temples to her or something. That’s how the Taj Mahal got started, I’m sure.

Baashir very kindly listened to my detailed description of the Big Banana. Everything interested Baashir. Curiosity is such an attractive quality. He said he would have to check it out. I said I wasn’t sure how it would stack up against the Taj Mahal.

Gold and silver taken from the Americas found its way to Asia; it was this redistribution of wealth that enabled the Taj Mahal to be built. Not without irony, one of the glories of India was the result of the suffering of “Indians” on the other side of the world.

Most stupid Question Most of the time people ask What is Important for you Love Or Money My Answer :- Love inspire to Build Taj Mahal And Money Full fill the Dream Love Inspire you to give good life to your family and Money Do it For survive Soul, you need love For survive Body,You need Money

Taj Mahal adalah bangunan yang menjadi bagian dari salah satu tujuh keajaiban dunia. Dibangun oleh Shah Jahan sebagai pusara bagi istrinya Mumtaz Mahal yang meninggal karena melahirkan sungsang ketika peperangan sedang berlangsung. Bagi Shah Jahan Taj Mahal adalah gambaran kecantikan dan keanggunan isterinya yang akan selalu dikenang oleh dirinya dan rakyatnya. Shah Jahan mengutus arsitek berdarah Persia untuk membangun Taj Mahal, Isa namanya. Yang akhirnya jatuh cinta pada Jahanara, puteri Shah Jahan yang bersuamikan Khondamir. Isa sangat mengagumi kecantikan Jahanara yang sangat mirip dengan ibunya, Mumtaz Mahal. Jahanara pun selingkuh dengan Isa yang juga sangat ia cintai, karena sejatinya Jahanara tidak pernah mencintai khondamir. Mereka menikah hanya karena alasan politik. Dibalik bangunan indah dan berdiri megah itu terdapat kisah yang haru, kejam, indah sekaligus membawa pembaca pada zaman kerajaan Hindustan.

How many of your snapshots could easily be replaced by a thousand identical others? Is there any value left in taking yet another photo of the moon, or the Taj Mahal, or the Eiffel Tower? Is a photograph just a kind of souvenir to prove you’ve been someplace, like a prefabricated piece of furniture that you happened to have assembled yourself?

Jei įžeidžiau jus, Jūsų Šviesybe, vadinasi, nusipelnėte kiekvieno priekaišto.

Una vez lanzada una acusación, por muy infundada que sea, la duda empieza a teñir la mente de quien la escucha.

When a population becomes distracted by trivia,” wrote the cultural critic Neil Postman, “when cultural life is redefined as a perpetual round of entertainments, when serious public conversation becomes a form of baby-talk, when, in short, a people becomes an audience and their public business a vaudeville, then a nation finds itself at risk: cultural-death is a clear possibility.”72 Con artists and swindlers exploit the frustrations and anger of a betrayed people. They make fantastic promises they never keep. They prey on the vulnerable. They demand godlike worship. They conjure up a world of illusions and fantasy. And then it implodes. The workers and patrons at the Trump Taj Mahal were victimized first. Now it is our turn.

As far as one journeys, as much as a man sees, from the turrets of the Taj Mahal to the Siberian wilds, he may eventually come to an unfortunate conclusion —usually while he's lying in bed, staring at the thatched ceiling of some substandard accommodation in Indochina," writes Swithin in his last book, the posthumously published Whereabouts, 1917 (1918). "It is impossible to rid himself of the relentless, cloying fever commonly known as Home. After seventy-three years of anguish I have found a cure, however. You must go home again, grit your teeth and however arduous the exercise, determine, without embellishment, your exact coordinates at Home, your longitudes and latitudes. Only then, will you stop looking back and see the spectacular view in front of you.

Isa looked down the river to the Taj Mahal. It shone harshly in the midday sun, the marble glared back at the sky and it stood isolated and alone. It needed a companion of beauty, but there was none in this world. Isa had thought long about the tomb; it had life, it breathed. He imagined the rise and fall of the stone as it sighed. He realized it was lonely. It was a perfect thing in an imperfect world, and that was an awesome burden.

By poking a quantum field in one tiny region of space, it’s possible to turn the quantum state of the whole universe into literally any state at all. Technically this result is known as the Reeh-Schlieder theorem, but it has also been called the Taj Mahal theorem. That’s because it implies that without leaving my room, I can do an experiment and get an outcome that implies there is now, suddenly, a copy of the Taj Mahal on the moon. (Or any other building, at any other location in the universe.)

No wonder that progress was so slow within the ancient empires. Anything of value—land, crops, livestock, buildings, even children—could be arbitrarily seized, and as the Chinese iron magnates learned, it often was. Worse yet, the tyrannical empires invested little of the wealth they extracted to increase production. They consumed it instead—often in various forms of display. The Egyptian pyramids, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and the Taj Mahal were all built as beautiful monuments to repressive rule;

I recognized the great monument from the illustration in the copy of /The Jungle Book/ that my mother kept in the top drawer of my bedside table. When I went with Sophia to the Taj Mahal for the first time, I was not as enchanted by the real mausoleum as I had been by its plaster, paint, and paper replica in the studio; the original posed a dreadfully seductive promise in cool marble of a strangely painful loveliness, a lover's lie that death itself might in some mysterious way, because of love, be lovely.

I looked into the wind, feeling the day alternately warm and cool and warm again on my face and arms as the breeze turned and returned across the bay. A small fleet of fishing canoes drifted past us on their way back to the fishermen’s sandy refuge near the slum. I suddenly remembered the day in the rain, sailing in a canoe across the flooded forecourt of the Taj Mahal Hotel and beneath the booming, resonant dome of the Gateway Monument. I remembered Vinod’s love song, and the rain that night as Karla came into my arms.

We entered the Taj Mahal, the most romantic place on the planet, and possibly the most beautiful building on earth. We ate curry with our driver in a Delhi street café late at night and had the best chicken tikka I’ve ever tasted in an Agra restaurant. After the madness of Delhi, we were astonished that Agra could be even more mental. And we loved it. We marvelled at the architecture of the Red Fort, where Shah Jahan spent the last three years of his life, imprisoned and staring across at the Taj Mahal, the tomb of his favourite wife. We spent two days in a village constructed specifically for tiger safaris, although I didn’t see a tiger, my wife and son were more fortunate. We noticed in Mussoorie, 230 miles from the Tibetan border, evidence of Tibetan features in the faces of the Indians, and we paid just 770 rupees for the three of us to eat heartily in a Tibetan restaurant. Walking along the road accompanied by a cow became as common place as seeing a whole family of four without crash helmets on a motorcycle, a car going around a roundabout the wrong way, and cars approaching towards us on the wrong side of a duel carriageway. India has no traffic rules it seems.

Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Teach him how to fish with the right line, the right bait, at the right time of day, at the right sort of spot, and if he has the right recreational or commercial licence he may, with practise and experience, actually be able to feed himself and his family for a lifetime. And that is something worth fishing for!

Many people don’t realize this, but the Taj Mahal is a single mausoleum, designed, constructed, and maintained for one woman: Mumtaz Mahal, the favorite wife of Emperor Shah Jahan. The emperor was so distressed by the death of his beloved that he commissioned the construction of the Taj Mahal. He preserved her body for the more than twenty years it took to build (from 1632 to 1653); he spent thirty-two million rupees (nearly a billion dollars in today’s currency), and employed twenty thousand of the world’s greatest artisans, imported Italian marble (which was not an easy thing to do in seventeenth-century India—and not to mention that India had its own makrana marble he could have been using), all to create a private tomb worthy of his lost love.

As far as one journeys, as much as a man sees, from the turrets of the Taj Mahal to the Siberian wilds, he may eventually come to an unfortunate conclusion—usually while he’s lying in bed, staring at the thatched ceiling of some substandard accommodation in Indochina,” writes Swithin in his last book, the posthumously published Whereabouts, 1917 (1918). “It is impossible to rid himself of the relentless, cloying fever commonly known as Home. After seventy-three years of anguish I have found a cure, however. You must go home again, grit your teeth and however arduous the exercise, determine, without embellishment, your exact coordinates at Home, your longitudes and latitudes. Only then, will you stop looking back and see the spectacular view in front of you.

That the petitioner No. 2 is the founder President of an Institution, namely, “ Institute for Re-writing Indian (and World) History “. The aim and objective of that institution, which is a registered society having register no. F-1128 (T) as the public trust under the provision of Bombay Public Trust Act. Inter alia, is to re-discover the Indian history. The monumental places of historical importance in their real and true perspective having of the heritage of India. The true copy of memorandum of association of the aforesaid society / public trust having fundamental objectives along with Income tax exemption certificate under section 80-G (5) of I.T. Act, 1961 for period 1/4/2003 to 31/3/2006 are filed herewith as marked as Annexure No.1 and 2 to the writ petition. 5. That the founder-President of Petitioner’s Institution namely Shri P. N. Oak is a National born Citizen of India. He resides permanently at the address given in case title. The petitioner is a renowned author of 13 renowned books including the books, titled as, “ The Taj Mahal is a Temple Place”. This petition is related to Taj Mahal, Fatehpur- Sikiri, Red-fort at Agra, Etamaudaula, Jama- Masjid at Agra and other so called other monuments. All his books are the result of his long-standing research and unique rediscovery in the respective fields. The titles of his books speak well about the contents of the subject. His Critical analysis, dispassionate, scientific approach and reappraisal of facts and figures by using recognised tools used in the field gave him distinction through out the world. The true copy of the title page of book namely “The Taj Mahal is a Temple Palace” . written by Sri P. N. Oak, the author/ petitioner No. 2 is filed as Annexure –3 to this writ petition.

Elephanta caves, Mumbai-- I entered a world made of shadows and sudden brightness. The play of the light, the vastness of the space and its irregular form, the figures carved on the walls: all of it gave the place a sacred character, sacred in the deepest meaning of the word. In the shadows were the powerful reliefs and statues, many of them mutilated by the fanaticism of the Portuguese and the Muslims, but all of them majestic, solid, made of a solar material. Corporeal beauty, turned into living stone. Divinities of the earth, sexual incarnations of the most abstract thought, gods that were simultaneously intellectual and carnal, terrible and peaceful. ............................................................................ Gothic architecture is the music turned to stone; one could say that Hindu architecture is sculpted dance. The Absolute, the principle in whose matrix all contradictions dissolve (Brahma), is “neither this nor this nor this.” It is the way in which the great temples at Ellora, Ajanta, Karli, and other sites were built, carved out of mountains. In Islamic architecture, nothing is sculptural—exactly the opposite of the Hindu. The Red Fort, on the bank of the wide Jamuna River, is as powerful as a fort and as graceful as a palace. It is difficult to think of another tower that combines the height, solidity, and slender elegance of the Qutab Minar. The reddish stone, contrasting with the transparency of the air and the blue of the sky, gives the monument a vertical dynamism, like a huge rocket aimed at the stars. The mausoleum is like a poem made not of words but of trees, pools, avenues of sand and flowers: strict meters that cross and recross in angles that are obvious but no less surprising rhymes. Everything has been transformed into a construction made of cubes, hemispheres, and arcs: the universe reduced to its essential geometric elements. The abolition of time turned into space, space turned into a collection of shapes that are simultaneously solid and light, creations of another space, made of air. There is nothing terrifying in these tombs: they give the sensation of infinity and pacify the soul. The simplicity and harmony of their forms satisfy one of the most profound necessities of the spirit: the longing for order, the love of proportion. At the same time they arouse our fantasies. These monuments and gardens incite us to dream and to fly. They are magic carpets. Compare Ellora with the Taj Mahal, or the frescoes of Ajanta with Mughal miniatures. These are not distinct artistic styles, but rather two different visions of the world.

Not long after I learned about Frozen, I went to see a friend of mine who works in the music industry. We sat in his living room on the Upper East Side, facing each other in easy chairs, as he worked his way through a mountain of CDs. He played “Angel,” by the reggae singer Shaggy, and then “The Joker,” by the Steve Miller Band, and told me to listen very carefully to the similarity in bass lines. He played Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” and then Muddy Waters’s “You Need Love,” to show the extent to which Led Zeppelin had mined the blues for inspiration. He played “Twice My Age,” by Shabba Ranks and Krystal, and then the saccharine ’70s pop standard “Seasons in the Sun,” until I could hear the echoes of the second song in the first. He played “Last Christmas,” by Wham! followed by Barry Manilow’s “Can’t Smile Without You” to explain why Manilow might have been startled when he first heard that song, and then “Joanna,” by Kool and the Gang, because, in a different way, “Last Christmas” was an homage to Kool and the Gang as well. “That sound you hear in Nirvana,” my friend said at one point, “that soft and then loud kind of exploding thing, a lot of that was inspired by the Pixies. Yet Kurt Cobain” — Nirvana’s lead singer and songwriter — “was such a genius that he managed to make it his own. And ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’?” — here he was referring to perhaps the best-known Nirvana song. “That’s Boston’s ‘More Than a Feeling.’ ” He began to hum the riff of the Boston hit, and said, “The first time I heard ‘Teen Spirit,’ I said, ‘That guitar lick is from “More Than a Feeling.” ’ But it was different — it was urgent and brilliant and new.” He played another CD. It was Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy,” a huge hit from the 1970s. The chorus has a distinctive, catchy hook — the kind of tune that millions of Americans probably hummed in the shower the year it came out. Then he put on “Taj Mahal,” by the Brazilian artist Jorge Ben Jor, which was recorded several years before the Rod Stewart song. In his twenties, my friend was a DJ at various downtown clubs, and at some point he’d become interested in world music. “I caught it back then,” he said. A small, sly smile spread across his face. The opening bars of “Taj Mahal” were very South American, a world away from what we had just listened to. And then I heard it. It was so obvious and unambiguous that I laughed out loud; virtually note for note, it was the hook from “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy.” It was possible that Rod Stewart had independently come up with that riff, because resemblance is not proof of influence. It was also possible that he’d been in Brazil, listened to some local music, and liked what he heard.

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I stared hard at Suzanne, at her perfect heart-shaped face and reddish-brown skin, feeling comforted somehow by the youthful smoothness of her cheeks and the girlish curve in her lips. She seemed oddly undiminished by the illness. Her dark hair was still lustrous and long; someone had put in two ropy braids that reached almost to her waist. Her track runner's legs lay hidden beneath the blankets. She looked young, like a sweet, beautiful, twenty-six-year-old who was maybe in the middle of a nap. I regretted not coming earlier. I regretted the many times, over the course of our seesawing friendship, that I'd insisted she was making a wrong move, when possibly she'd been doing it right. I was suddenly glad for all the times she'd ignored my advice. I was glad that she hadn't overworked herself to get some fancy business school degree. That she'd gone off for a lost weekend with a semi-famous pop star, just for fun. I was happy that she'd made it to the Taj Mahal to watch the sunrise with her mom. Suzanne had lived in ways that I had not.

Richard Nixon, then the vice president, highlighted a six-room model ranch house to the Soviet leader, Nikita Khrushchev. “Soviet propaganda had been telling Russians in advance that the ranch house they would see at the U.S. exhibition was no more typical of workers’ homes in the U.S. than the Taj Mahal was typical in India or Buckingham Palace in Britain,” according to a Time magazine story.

A significant proportion of humanity’s cultural achievements owe their existence to the exploitation of conquered populations. The profits and prosperity brought by Roman imperialism provided Cicero, Seneca and St Augustine with the leisure and wherewithal to think and write; the Taj Mahal could not have been built without the wealth accumulated by Mughal exploitation of their Indian subjects; and the Habsburg Empire’s profits from its rule over its Slavic, Hungarian and Romanian-speaking provinces paid Haydn’s salaries and Mozart’s commissions.

The Fort had formerly been the residence of the old Mogul Emperors. Akbar, the greatest of them all, had built it and had held his court there. I have spent many an hour wandering around the beautiful buildings inside it. Not a stone’s throw from it, on the banks of the River Jumna, is the celebrated tomb called the Taj Mahal, which was built by Akbar’s grandson Shah Jehan in memory of his favourite wife. In addition to the finest craftsmen of their age, more than twenty thousand men, the majority of them slaves, were occupied for over seventeen years in building it. With the exception of the side facing the river, which from the foundation to a certain height is built of red sandstone, it is all pure white marble. The interior of the tomb with its marble screens and delicate pierced marble-work makes one amazed at the skill and patience of the workmen of old. Although the Prayer-wallah and I were hardened sinners we were also great admirers of all things that are beautiful: on many a night we left the Canteen half cut and journeyed down to view the Taj by moonlight, when it looked three times more beautiful than what it did during the day. Since the invention of cheap winter-cruises, I understand that thousands of globe-trotters go to Agra every year on purpose to see the Taj Mahal by moonlight, having been told by the steamship companies that the sight is something to dream about. But the Prayer-wallah and I found it out for ourselves.

El oro y la plata extraídos en las Américas se abrieron camino hasta Asia; fue esta redistribución de la riqueza la que permitió la construcción del Taj Mahal. El hecho de que una de las glorias de la India fuera el resultado del sufrimiento de los «indios» al otro lado del mundo no carece de ironía.

This history of wanting, Mahabat,” Sharif said slowly. “I have learned this much. It is better to want than to have a desire fulfilled. Once it is . . . it has little importance. So it will be for the Emperor.

Despite Nehru, the common culture has been under assault since Independence. Books have been written seeking to show that the Taj Mahal, one of India’s glories, was really more Hindu than Muslim. Indian history is being rewritten from the new point of view to describe the Muslims who ruled India for 700 years, as aliens and foreigners and Muslim rulers by and large as guilty of the worst intolerances, murders, rapes and plunders.

At first, I just watched the rippers from the flat in total awe of the Taj Mahal of my dreams. I was excited to spend all my time destroying myself the infamous Burnside Skatepark, which I had all to myself. This was a deep breath of heaven.

You visit these big companies. You walk in the front door and it looks like the Taj Mahal. You are expecting wonders, but you start talking to people and you find that it’s just an ordinary place with dispirited staff. They aren’t pursuing big ideas and, even if they are, there’s no mechanism for developing them.” He adds, “I often walk out of these companies depressed about the waste of the human talent working there. These companies must become profoundly more productive if they are to survive in our competitive global economy.

Follow That Man!

Mutability is the only constant thing in life. Nothing remains forever constant. The great works of art, the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon succumb to the ravages of time. What is man that in this brief and insignificant life of his, he tries to immortalize and exalt himself? All in vanity. Death and time reduce all to nothing.

If one did not know how to follow orders, one would not know how to give them.

Emperor would need a wife who was a companion, one with whom he could converse knowledgeably, one who would excite not only his passions, but also his mind.

Taj Mahal.

Of course, one is familiar with the experience of seeing something ambiguous. “Now it is the Taj Mahal—now it is fog.” And one can imagine having a procedural rule that anything ambiguous should be treated as the Taj Mahal unless we see that it is labelled “fog.

Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Teach him how to fish and he'll eat for a lifetime… UNLESS he's a vegan! In the desert! Without any bait!

Give a man a fish shop and he’ll flounder. Teach a man to manage a fish shop, and he’ll learn to fill it!

Give a man a fish and a kettle, and he may never feel its HIS kettle of fish. Teach a man to fish around for his OWN kettle, and that’s when you get a tasty home-made fish soup that everyone can enjoy!

Who Needs the Taj Mahal when it's a drag to live at all?

In one celebrated incident, an analyst who had the chutzpah to recommend that Trump’s Taj Mahal bonds be sold because they were unlikely to pay their interest was summarily fired by his firm after threats of legal retaliation from “The Donald” himself. (Later, the bonds did default.)

In the vastness of space, in the vastness of geologic time, some say that nothing matters very much and few things matter at all. When the earth falls into the sun…when the Taj Mahal, Mozart and the Mona Lisa burn to a crisp….what difference will it make?

In the vastness of space, in the vastness of geologic time, some say that nothing matters very much and few things matter at all. When the earth falls into the sun…when the Taj Mahal, Mozart and the Mona Lisa burn to a crisp….what difference will it make?

I’ve been around the world, and I thought I’d seen everything it had to offer until that night, until I saw you. In all my life, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, not standing in the Blue Mosque or the Taj Mahal. Not in the streets of Rome or canals of Venice. Making you smile gives me life. Making you laugh gives me hope. Making you happy is all I want, other than to keep you

As a parent, what would I want my son to become? A man who poses casually with his family in front of the Taj Mahal, or a man who proudly wears his misogyny on his sleeve?

In portraiture I look for people that I recognise - 'Look, it's Uncle Tony' - or for the faces of film stars. The Madame Tussaud's school of art appreciation. In realist works I look for detail; 'Look at the eyelashes!' I say, in idiotic admiration at the fineness of the brush. 'Look at the reflection in his eye!' In abstract art I look for colour - 'I love the blue' as if the works of Rothko and Mondrian were little more than immense paint charts. I understand the superficial thrill of seeing the object in the flesh, so to speak; the sightseeing approach that lumps together the Grand Canyon, the Taj Mahal and the Sistine Chapel as items to tick off. I understand rarity and uniqueness, the 'how much?' school of criticism.

The large hall, together with the tomb chamber over the actual burials below and the outer dome above, was the Taj Mahal’s core. A bronze lamp hanging above the cenotaphs cast a golden glow. During the day nobody noticed the lamp, even fewer were aware of its romantic history. A gift from Lord Curzon, a viceroy of British India, it was inlaid with silver and gold, and modelled on the design of a lamp that hung in the mosque of Sultan Beybars II of Cairo. The story went that on a visit to the Taj, Lord Curzon was so dismayed by the smoky country lanterns used by his guides to show him around, that he resolved to present the Taj with worthy lighting. For a century now, Mehrunisa reflected, an Englishman’s love had illuminated the imperial Mughal tomb.

front courtyard of his house. In an inner courtyard,

divine views in the entire country, so if you want to see what a true monument of manmade energy can be please check out the Taj Mahal!

Groceries, baby, listen to your friend Richard. You go set your lily-white ass down in that meditation cave every day for the next three months and I promise you this--you're gonna start seeing some stuff that's so damn beautiful it'll make you wanna throw rocks at the Taj Mahal.

It can be exhausting eating a meal cooked by a man. With a woman, it’s, Ho hum, pass the beans. A guy, you have to act like he just built the Taj Mahal.